


Travel Preparations

by Mossgreen



Series: 2770 ab urbe condita [25]
Category: 2770 ab urbe condita - Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Master/Slave, Non-Sexual Slavery, Sexual Slavery, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 05:44:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15924080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mossgreen/pseuds/Mossgreen
Summary: Packing for travel is more complicated than you'd think, if you've never done it before.





	Travel Preparations

**Author's Note:**

> These are going up in more or less chronological order, though there may be a period of days or weeks between the events in one story, and the next. This whole 'heading to Britain' thing is getting ridiculous, so it's got its own mini-series within the larger 2770 a.u.c. series, just to help me (and you!) keep track... despite the 'writing in a vague chronological order' thing. I also owe Part Two of Photo Opportunity, which has gone into hibernation.
> 
> There will be more porny stuff soon - you don't think Master's forgotten to pack (or rather, to make Ven pack) a video camera, do you? 
> 
> I was in two minds about actually giving Master's name at any point, but it's getting to the stage where I had to.

It had been a confusing sort of morning, all told. Ven was still sore, or raw, in places he hadn't even known existed a few weeks ago, and was trying not to walk too obviously gingerly as he went to fetch his master's suitcase from storage.

Even so, the gardener gave an exaggerated wince when he saw him, straightening up from re-potting a rose in an urn to stretch as Ven passed.

"I heard your back crack from over here, Icarus," Ven said, pausing with a grin for the older slave.

"I heard your shriek earlier from out here," Icarus retorted with a grin. Ven found himself blushing.

"You shouldn't be blushing at it, pretty young thing like you," Icarus added. "Though you'll grow out of it soon enough – or get used to the jokes. You're not one of those who's always going to go pink at the sound of the word 'cock', I can see that."

"How long did it take you before you stopped blushing?"

"You impudent boy! If your master didn't prefer to do it himself, I'd turn you over my knee and tan your arse."

Ven shook his head. He was Icarus' master too, of course, but it was common knowledge that Icarus had only ever had one master, the man who'd taken him to his bed as his own _concubīnus_ – he had had several owners, but only one he ever admitted to being his master. He was tight-lipped about the events that ended that period of his life, but spoke easily enough about the rest of it, and didn't mind giving advice when it was needed.

"You'd best get going if you don't want your master to turn your bum a pretty pink. Although from the way you're walking – or is that limp the result of what caused that yell?"

"Didn't you see us last night, all lined up for everyone to see?" Ven asked. "Willow, Moss and me – ask them, or anyone else serving at the dinner-party last night. Or, hell." He turned and lifted the back of his tunic, displaying his striped bum. "You probably went to bed before all that, didn't you?"

"Nice set of stripes on a nice arse," Icarus said, with the approval of a connoisseur – which he probably was, if all the stories about his youth were true. If he'd done anything with any of the other slaves, it had been entirely consensual and somewhere Ven hadn't heard it.

"It wasn't you who dropped the serving-tray, though, was it – but a master's never needed a reason to dish out a whipping. You'd better go before he takes it into his head to give you another one for being slow." Icarus got creakily to his knees again – he wasn't even that old, not really, in his forties or fifties. Which was old enough for a slave, really, but he was a good gardener, and seemingly glad of the quiet life under a master who appreciated his talents with roses.

Ven took the suitcase and headed back to his master's room. It had taken him some serious hunting to find it, in what had been the bedroom furthest from the front of the house and was now relegated to a storage area and junk-room for all the stuff that it wasn't worth putting in the attic (or that was too awkward to get into the attics) or that was required just frequently enough that the slaves couldn't be bothered taking to the attics. Willow had been making noises about sorting through it all and seeing whether the broken furniture could be repaired or if the master would let him just dump it.

There was a printed list on the bed when Ven finally got back to his master's room. The master himself was sitting in the atrium, eating breakfast, and caught Ven's eye as he came out of the _cubiculum_ to head into the study for something. He changed direction, settling (somewhat gingerly) at his master's feet as directed, to be passed a bowl of fruit cubes and a spoon.

"There is a list on my bed of things to pack. I need enough for... two weeks. Your things will fit however they fit, I cannot see that you will take enough to warrant a second checked bag. Ensure I have a full change of clothing in the carry-on – I should not need to say as much, but you have never travelled far, have you?"

Ven shook his head. He had been born on his previous master's country estate in Campania, brought to Rome in his teens, and summarily sold a year ago almost directly after his old master's funeral by the man's widow, who thought Ven looked too much like her husband for comfort. Or had been screwing him – Ven personally leaned toward the former theory more than the latter one, but the latter one had been voiced by more than one slave who'd also been put up for sale at the same time.

His present master continued speaking, jolting him out of his thoughts. "So. A change of clothing in the carry-on. You may handle my travel documents for the moment, but I shall take charge of those myself tomorrow."

Ven nodded; slaves were not permitted to handle identification documents except in special cases or exceptional circumstances. Some dozy Senator had once had the idea that it would encourage slaves to think of themselves as actual people and wish for their own identification papers, or something. It had all been about a hundred years ago (maybe more) and Ven had never really had the details explained to him anyway.

"And I want you to wear this." Master lifted a short length of chain from the table, which puzzled Ven for only a moment before he saw the tag hanging from it, and went white. If he wasn't already kneeling, he would have dropped to his knees. As it was, he hastily put his bowl down and lowered his head to the floor by his master's feet, a position of abject supplication, and tried not to whimper.

"Master... please... why b... brand me as a runaway? Don't I... don't I please you?"

A hand in his hair, calming, soothing, before it grasped his hair tightly to pull his head up to look at his master's face. "Yes, you do please me. I would never mar your pretty face like that."

Ven frowned, confused, before the other, far more literal, meaning of the word 'brand' occurred to him and he very nearly stopped breathing before he could make himself understand his master's reassurance.

"Thank you, Master," he said, trying not to go limp with relief, and took a breath, trying to calm himself so that he could make himself understood better. "I meant... I meant, the implication would be... when I never _have_..."

"No, you never have," Master said, gently carding his fingers through Ven's hair again now that his slave's face was lifted to look at him. "But you didn't look at it properly."

He held it out for Ven to take. It was a medium weight steel neck-chain, of the type that all slaves had been forced to wear at one time or another in the Empire's long history. The tag that had caused his initial panic didn't look much less like one warning of a fugitive slave even from this close. _I belong to_ and his master's name, D. Varius Metellus. The chain was heavier than a simple piece of jewellery, the sort of chain that could be purchased from any ironmonger's or slave-wear shop, the sort of mid-weight chain that was fastened closed with a padlock to which the slave's owner held the only key.

"The tag itself can be hidden inside the neck of your tunic, although the chain will be visible. I want you to wear it partly because this is the first time I have taken you anywhere outside the City itself, since I decided to claim you for my pet." Master's voice grew dry. "I suppose I _could_ make you travel naked, if you would prefer, although I doubt the airline would thank me."

Ven gave a full-body shudder at that notion, and gave the hateful slave-chain back to his master. "As it please my master," he said tonelessly, passively allowing his master to position his head so that the chain could be fastened around his neck, the metal links cool against his skin. Of course his master used one of the slimline padlocks that resembled two halves of a chain-link that merely pushed together to lock. Naturally, it required a key to unlock and naturally, Ven had no idea where his master had put the key.

"You're too valuable for me to risk losing you," Master informed him. "And the airline requires all slaves to wear name-chains." Whether or not he meant the words to be reassuring, they sent Ven into a spiral of wondering how he was supposed to be able to earn enough to purchase his freedom if he no longer got given tips by anyone, his value had increased and his master still gave him the same amount of _pecūlium_ every other slave in the household was given.

It was maybe one percent of his sale price that had gone into his freedom fund when he'd been purchased as a house slave, and maybe one percent of his value when he had initially been registered as a slave at the age of six – and what was a six-year-old worth, anyway? So that was even less – he had, maybe 25 denarii to his freedom, plus a few sesterces. If that, even – and if Master had decided to increase his value in the slave registration system, that would automatically increase his target (why would a master allow a slave to pay less than market value for himself, after all?) and... Freedom had suddenly never looked so far off.

Although, on the flip side, what would he do as a free man? Currently, he had a home, and regular meals, and didn't have to work his fingers to the bone to pay for them. Even a freedman's time wasn't his own; he had to spend half his morning running around so that he could call and greet his patron and maybe get sent out on errands that the patron couldn't or wouldn't entrust to his slaves (but would entrust to a former slave). A free man – even a freedman – wasn't subject to a master's whims the way a slave was, of course, and Ven had plenty of experience of being subject to another's whims. _As my master pleases_ was one of the first lessons a _verna_ learned to speak, shortly followed by _As my master says_ if you happened to disagree with him. (No sane slave ever told his master outright that he disagreed with him!)

"What is the matter?"

Ven looked up again, his face going blank. "Nothing, master."

His master studied his face for a moment, a disconcerting action in a world where slaves were merely objects that moved and talked, and where people paid as little attention to them as they did to the furniture.

The slap that came was not given in anger, but administered deliberately, its strength calculated and Ven's head snapped around as his master's open hand connected with his cheek. "I saw your expression change. Do not lie to me, slave, it is obviously something. What is the matter?"

It took a moment for Ven to regather himself. "I don't think..."

He stopped himself before he could be further reprimanded for thinking, not thinking, or confessing to thinking. Slaves were supposed to do what their masters told them, completely, precisely, and no more. Lying outright was one thing, but to get caught doing it was just... stupid. It hadn't been a hard slap, all things considered, and some masters would have done worse.

"It is nothing of consequence to anyone but... a slave, Master," he said eventually, looking down and judging his words with care. "And therefore it is... nothing."

"After all, why should a slave's concerns have anything to do with the master. But it worries you."

Ven grew cautious. "Yes, Master."

"So, tell me what it is that is worrying you."

"I did check my account, earlier, Master," he began, hesitantly, although if his master cared to look, he would see that for himself. "You've increased my value," he continued, neutrally, trying to make it more a statement of fact than an accusation. "And..." he took a breath, willing his voice not to break. "At the rate I've managed to save, I'll be about a hundred before I can pay it."

He had seen that his value had almost doubled, and had been trying to work out how he could possibly attain that money.

"I don't think it will take you that long, and you need not worry about that right now, anyway. Eat your breakfast and get on with packing. I have my clients to see, and if you have any questions in the meanwhile about what to take, or what to leave out, I will be out here. It should not take very long. Do not forget the charger cables for the electronic items – pack those near the top, security often want them out when the bags go through the scanners. Make sure my phone is fully charged before we leave for the airport. And – do you have any warm clothing? Britannia can be cold, if you have never been there."

"I... No, master. Not... not that you will want me to wear now that I am your..." Ven trailed off, glancing down into his empty bowl which he set to one side to be taken to the kitchen later.

"Hmm."

Master _was_ quick with his clients; they had obviously been briefed because Ven saw only three or four waiting when he passed through the atrium later, on his way to fetch some items from the training room which were on the packing list. He was mostly done by the time his master came in and told him to leave what he was doing so they could head down to the Forum.

They took longer walking to the office than Master spent on the premises, and he spent most of the time there telling people that they had his phone number, it was Britannia not the other side of the Mare Atlanticum and surely they didn't need him to hold their hands over every little thing? Ven got a lot of practise at keeping his expression blank before they left, diverting to an outdoor clothing suppliers where they found Ven a lightweight rain jacket with a fleece liner that could unzip and be worn on its own. They also called into a clothing shop on the way home, where Master bought, with blinding efficiency, a pair of warm trousers with an elasticated waist, three short under-tunics and a lighter-weight zip-up top in almost the same shade as Ven's new tunic.

It felt ridiculous, buying so much clothing for one short trip, though Ven reflected that this could well be only the first of many such trips and he would surely get the use out of the things somehow or Master would not have bought them. It was an interesting feeling, having clothing bought specifically for him, too - yes, Master had chosen the new livery to complement his colouring, but this was different.

He packed and re-packed the case, trying to make his own things take up less and less room, finally managing to make everything fit once he found his master would be wearing his toga (unwieldy and ridiculous to manage though it was, it was still the garment of a Roman citizen, and it seemed a lot of citizens found it preferable to wear them on the plane rather than cram them into their luggage. Ven merely breathed a sigh of relief as he got the suitcase closed and the security strap round it.)

 _Make-up - hand luggage_ read the next item on the list, and Ven paused. He'd acquired a zip-up pencil-case from somewhere recently, and put in a couple of different colour eye-shadows, two lipsticks, lip-liner and eye-liner, putting the brushes into a plastic freezer-bag before putting them in too. He'd have to ask someone about the best way to transport make-up, if this was going to be a regular thing.

Eventually, everything was packed apart from his tablet and his master's laptop and phone, and he went to make sure that all the travel documents were in one place and they wouldn't forget something vital. Like the plane tickets.

He found his master's passport on his desk, along with a plastic card, and couldn't help his curiosity. The passport was, strictly speaking, not required for travel within the Empire itself, but a great many citizens who did a lot of travelling used them as identity rather than their driving licences – Ven could honestly say he hadn't a clue whether his master had a licence or not, though he suspected he did. The passport – with its Imperial purple cover and laurel-wreathed Imperial Eagle gripping mighty Jove's thunderbolt in its talons and naturally including the SPQR blazon – was passed over in favour of the small plastic card lying on top of it, which proved to be a slave's travel permit. Ven had heard of these, of course, but had never actually seen one. Its details were taken straight from the Slave Administration Bureau's immense database, naturally, and the photo on it was the most recent one of him; there was a requirement to update a slave's photo every five years or on being transferred to a new master.

 **Slave Permit to Travel**  
**Slave's Name:** Ven  
**Identification Number:** DOL-C87365-27450515-ROMA  
**Date of Birth:** Ides of May 2745 a.u.c  
**Current Master:** Drusus Varius Metellus  
**Description:** Five feet six inches tall, dark hair, green eyes, fair skin. Teeth in good condition. _Scars:_ None _Piercings:_ Two in each nipple. _Brands:_ None _Tattoos:_ None  
**Address Currently Registered At:** House of Drusus Varius Metellus, Quirinal Hill, Rome  
**Holder authorised to travel with his master. Card invalid if not presented alongside the legal identification of D. V. Metellus**  
**Issuing Authority** Bureau of Slave Administration, Rome

**_WARNING: This card is not proof of legal identification_ **

Of course it wasn't; Ven couldn't hold a legal identification document because he didn't have a legal identity.

"Have you not seen one of those before?"

Ven jumped and spun round, only being prevented from dropping to his knees by his master's coming over to where he was standing by the desk.

"No, Master, although I've heard about them."

"Are you nervous about this trip?"

Ven looked at his owner curiously. "No, Master. Maybe a bit, about the flying, but not nervous... Only, they do speak Latin there, don't they?"

The question made his master laugh. "Yes – probably with a frightful barbarian accent. I daresay you speak better Latin than most of them, but the freeborn are citizens regardless of how well they speak Latin, and you will treat them with all the respect you would accord any other citizen."

"Yes, Master." Ven quietly set the card back on the desk and made sure that the flight details and plane tickets were tucked into his master's passport.

**Author's Note:**

> Front (L) and back (R) of Ven's slave travel permit:  
> 
> 
> Translations:  
>  _cubiculum_ \- bedroom  
>  _concubīnus_ \- male bed-slave, male concubine. (Always a slave; a female - _concubīna_ \- may be a free person)  
>  _verna_ \- one born into slavery  
>  _Mare Atlanticum_ Atlantic Ocean
> 
> The Ides of May 2745 a.u.c work out as being the 15th May 1992, for anyone interested. ('In March, July, October, May, the Nones are on the seventh day' - which places the Ides of those months on the 15th. Romans and their named calendar days! The Nones of the other months are on the 5th, and the Ides on the 13th. The Kalends, which give their name to the word 'calendar', are the first of the month.)


End file.
